End of Ages
by Ripper
Summary: Elvish orgies! Rogue hobbits! Bloody big swords! As the Fourth Age goes all to buggery, a desperate plea for help is sent. What they need is a strong, wise, noble leader of men who could fairly be described as charisma on legs. What they got was Randall.
1. In Which Randall Screws Up

Disclaimer: I own some of 'em.  
Author's Notes: It's my first LoTR, so bear with me. Couldn't decide on drama or comedy, so it's sort of neither-ish. Also, shite. So why publish it? Because I have more in common with Monsieur De Sade than a love of necrophilia: thus, my urge to inflict pain on other leads us to *this*. And before you ask, NO it isn't a bloody self-insertion. Read it and see.  
  
  
  
"It's beautiful, isn't it?"  
  
Randall dropped the withered monkey paw and spun around, startled. "Jesus!" he gasped. "Oh," his expression changed from fright to one of relief as he focused on the benign, smiling old man before him. "Sorry, I was just looking at the monkey hand. Paw. Thing. I didn't know anyone was...you scared me." He stooped and picked up the filthy thing where it had fallen, tried to dust it off, and gave up. "Here," he held it out awkwardly.  
  
  
The short, rounded shop keep, almost a foot and a half shorter than Randall, beamed at him and reached for the paw. "Not a problem at all, my dear," he said kindly. Their fingers brushed into contact as he took the manky relic, and in an instant the old man had clasped his hand around Randall's. Randall winced at the his surprising strength, as fingers like claws raked his skin. "I said I was sorry. Um, okay, ow. Hurting now. Ow. OW! Stop it!" He tried to wrench away, but was pulled violently forwards. Randall could feel the old man's wet, milky breath on his skin now, as he leaned in, his eyes searching Randall's hungrily, their faces almost touching. Randall tried to drag his gaze away, but felt himself being drawn inexorably downwards into their cold, glittering depths. The air grew chokingly hot, searing his nose and lungs, making his skin feel raw and exposed. The earth seemed to slow, and he had the vague sensation that the two of them were an island of reality, while time ran thickly around them, filled with hideous, dark shapes from times best forgotten, reaching out to him, calling for him...Randall blinked, and that a second all was normal again.   
  
  
They were in the old shop once more, the late afternoon sunlight filtering down from a high window, making the dusty air glow like liquid gold. Randall could smell nothing but old paper, leather and wood, and see nothing but shelves and cabinets filled to overflowing with junk. Also, something to do with cabbages. The old man was once again just that: a harmless, white-haired grandfatherly type in a cardigan and Hush Puppies, smiling stupidly up at him. "I...um, did you..." stammered Randall weakly. He noted the blank expression on the shopkeeper's face. "Never mind," he finished lamely.   
  
Bloody weird.  
  
The old man continued to smile, and took the monkey paw from him gently. "I think," he said, "That we had best put this back, hmm?"  
Randall nodded vigorously. "Sure. Sorry about that. Is it broken or anything?" The old man moved in front of him to return the ugly thing to its rightful place in the cabinet. "Oh, no. They're surprisingly sturdy."  
  
"Really?" asked Randall, fiddling with an antique puppet. "That's pretty cool, for something that's like, ages old."  
  
He felt, rather than saw, the old man stiffen beside him, and looked up to meet his gaze in the backing cabinet mirror. For a second Randall could have sworn he saw a flash of something...other...in his eyes, but almost before he noticed, it was gone. The eyes were of the generally approved kind for little old men; that is, blue and twinkly. But...there was a shallow, brittle hardness about them that was vaguely off-putting.   
  
"Yes," said the old man quietly. "Many, many ages." He held Randall's gaze for just a little too long, before breaking into a smile again. "But," he said brightly, "That isn't what you came here for, is it, my dear?"  
  
Randall's mouth fell open. How the hell could the old man know what he had come for? He wracked his brains, trying to remember if he'd ever been in the shop before, but he couldn't recall a single time. In fact, now that he thought of it, he'd never even seen the shop before today. Which was puzzling, seeing how well he knew the area...The old man was still smiling expectantly at him, and Randall returned the gesture nervously. "Um, that's right, actually. It isn't what I came for." He licked his lips, and glanced around, but the shop was empty save for their presence. "Um, see, what I really wanted-"  
  
  
"Say no more!" said the old man happily. "I know exactly what you came for. I have it right here." He whipped something from a cabinet behind his and placed it on the counter. "There you are, my dear," he crowed. "What you wanted, was it not?"   
  
Randall looked down at the small, plain wooden box. in front of him. "Um, actually-" he stammered.  
  
"Open it!" said the old shop keep eagerly. "Open it!"  
  
God, thought Randall, he's about to start drooling. He picked up the box, and turned it over in his hands. The wood felt old, but surprisingly strong, as though crafted to hold something in need of protection from the outside world. Or vice versa, he thought. As his fingers played over the catch, he felt suddenly cold and exposed, as though he was being watched. Randall shivered and put the box down. "Um, no. No, I don't think so. Thanks all the same, but-"  
  
"But? But what?!? But nothing! Open it!" snarled the old man suddenly. Randall yelped and jumped back from the counter, dropping the box. The old man's face was distorted with rage, but his anger faded instantly, and he smiled warmly at Randall once more. A little too warmly.  
  
"It is meant for you, my dear, that is all." He stepped around the counter and picked up the box gingerly. "Here." He held it out, and Randall noticed his hands were trembling. He swallowed and glanced at the old man's face. His lips were wet, and his large blue eyes looked to be full of tears. Such big, blue eyes...Randall shook his head. "I don't want it," he said firmly.   
  
For a second he thought the old man was about to explode again, but he checked himself in time, and continued to smile desperately, holding the box out to Randall.   
"But just think, my dear, what you could do with it," he said, encouragingly.  
  
  
"Do with what?" said Randall, a little higher than he would have liked. The old man's eyes narrowed. "You know perfectly well what I'm talking about. You want to see...things, yes? Other worlds? Other beings? Elves, dwarves, demons, wizards...magic. That's what you want most of all, isn't it?" He said it softly, but with underlying eagerness. His voice sank almost to a whisper. "I can give it to you, my dear, give all of it to you. If you'll only take it-" he gasped as Randall knocked the box to the floor.  
  
  
"All right, that's it," said Randall. "I don't know what the fuck you're playing at, but it stops now, okay, you old perverted midget?"  
  
The old man blinked, stunned.  
  
"Oh, don't look at me like that." Randall rolled his eyes. "Look, I know your type, and I'm sorry, but I'm just not that kind of guy. Not that I'm not flattered, but the role playing, sword sorcery and sex thing just doesn't do it for me. It's the cloaks, mostly. And the chain mail. Oh, and that Warhammer shit can just...just...go die, okay? It's not happening."  
  
"But," the shop keep goggled at him, "But you came for...the ring..."  
  
Randall's brow furrowed. "What ring? I came here for the fantasy porn my mate Brock said you stocked. Which he was obviously shitting me about. Oh, hey," he suddenly grinned, "Did Brocky put you up to this? He bloody did, didn't he? Oh, man, I feel like such a dick! You really had me there...Where is that bastard?" He peered around the shop. "He's taping it or something, isn't he? That was a good one. I really thought you were-" he broke off as a grip of iron fastened around his neck and yanked him downwards.  
  
"WHAT?!?" screamed the old man into Randall's face. "What are you talking about? You came here for the ring! The one ring! And you will take it, my dear pretty one." His voice lowered to a hiss.  
  
  
Randall pulled away violently. "Judas Priest!" he yelled. "What the fuck is your problem, mate? I don't want the bloody ring, or whatever. And stop calling me 'dear', it's fuckin' freaking me out."  
  
The old man blinked, and stared at Randall as though for the first time. His mouth dropped open, and his entire body seemed to sag. "No," he said weakly, "No, it can't be..." he staggered backwards and sank down into one of the over-stuffed armchairs, before burying his face in his hands. "You're not a girl at all, are you?" he muttered.  
  
"Shit no," said Randall, indignantly.  
  
"And you haven't got raven hair, unconventionally pretty face, slim build and striking green eyes?"  
  
"Uh, well, my eyes are sort of hazel-brown, if that helps." Randall shifted uneasily. "Look, are you okay? Are you having one of those old-people things, or something? Okay, you're in the shop, in Brisbane, and it's Wednesday the 14th of March, and you're...um, some old guy. Are you gonna piss your pants?"  
  
The old man drew a shuddering, sobbing breath, and sank deeper into the chair. "And I don't suppose," he continued in a barely audible voice, "That you're more perceptive than most? That people tend to shy away from you, sensing some otherworldly, ethereal quality about you that makes them uncomfortable? No strange, prophetic dreams?"  
  
  
"Uh, well, I do have these dreams, actually."  
  
The old man looked up, a glimmer of hope on his face. "Yes? What kind of dreams?"  
  
"Well, there's this girl, Carla, who goes to my school. And mate, she is fuckin' fine as-"  
  
The old man sighed. "I'm sorry," he said, looking sadly at Randall. "I...the eyes aren't up for it, you see. Far too old. Now, I only judge the aura. It's always worked before. But I was so sure..." he trailed off, staring into space, before shaking his head. "Ah, well," he said, standing up. "Nothing to be done, I suppose. At least I realised before it went too far." His face darkened. "Oh, yes, at least we didn't send the wrong one. My, my, that would have been something," he clucked. "Now, if you're not her, then...oh, where did I put it?" He began leafing through one of the old books scattered across the counter, flipping the ancient velour pages printed with strange markings and diagrams.  
  
  
Randall smiled uneasily and tried to avoid eye contact. "Mmm. I, uh, guess I'll be on my way, now that you've finished your freaky mind-trip thingy. See you round. Or not, if I'm lucky."  
  
"Hmmm?" the shopkeeper looked up distractedly. "Oh, yes, off you go. So sorry to have troubled you."  
  
"Oh no, no trouble. I *like* having old guys trap me in their dusty junk pits and mind-fuck me with their weird Dungeons and Dragons shtick and grope my aura and tell me I'm actually a chick. Hey, that rhymed! Kind of," he added happily.  
  
"Don't mention it," said the old man vaguely. "Aha, now, if the moon's progressing to that quarter, then..."  
  
"Well, fuck you too," muttered Randall, and slouched away to the door. Halfway across the room, between a small stuffed zebra and a billowy black cloak and cowl on a hanger, he stopped, and bent down to retrieve something. "Oh, hey, mate," he called, straightening and holding the wooden box aloft. "You dropped your, um, thingy."  
  
The shopkeeper jerked to attention, and he strode towards Randall, hand outstretched. "Give it to me," he commanded.   
  
"Bloody hell, make up your mind, will you?" laughed Randall, tossing the box from one hand to another. "One minute you can't wait to get rid of the sodding thing, the next you-"  
  
"Give it to me!"  
  
"Jeez, settle down. Here- oh, whoopsie narna! Well, now you've gone and made me drop it."  
  
The catch of the box flew open as it hit the floor, and out spilled a shining, golden blur, which settled on the floor with a deep, weighty sound. "I'll get it," said the old man, firmly.  
  
"No, no, my bad, I got it," said Randall, reaching for the treasure. His fingers closed over a small gold ring, and he blinked. "It's cold," he said in surprise. "And heavy, too. Nice, but. Where'd you get it?" He held the ring up to examine it-  
  
"Give it to me! Give it to me!" cried the old man, reaching for it frantically. Randall backed away, through the scattered junk..  
  
"All right, all right, no need to get all...thingy. You were dead keen for me to have it just now, and- WOAH!" He fell backwards over an elephant leg footstool and landed heavily. The ring flew into the air, gleaming dazzlingly as it caught the light, and Randall reached up for it.  
  
"NO!" yelled the old man, lunging for the ring just as it settled over Randall's outstretched index finger-  
  
-and disappeared. 


	2. In Which Randall Falls, and a Nancy-Boy ...

Warning: Silmarillion references, albeit rather dodgy ones. (If you notice a glaring fault in my LoTR mythology, please tell me!)  
Author's Notes- Well, this started out as a Mary Sue pisstake, but seeing as they've become as prolific as the Mary Sues themselves (how post-modern), it's mutated into some strange (supposedly humorous)LoTR and Silmarillion pisstake thing. Partly based on "A New Shadow", from Volume Twelve of the History of Middle Earth. Thus the strange language. Avert your eyes, children.  
  
  
  
...and so it was that at the End of Ages, a great darkness of the soul was come across Middle Earth. The line of the Dunedain was grown weak and Men turned from the light in heart and mind, for the poisoned touch of the Enemy of the World was upon them once more.   
  
  
This sickness spread throughout the lands, leaving no race untouched. Men dabbled in the Dark Arts, until at last they felt themselves grown so mighty as to be above the Old Ways (as they deemed them), and things once sacred were treated with scorn and derision. Men grew so proud as to seek dominance over all the peoples of Middle Earth, weak or strong, good or evil, wise or foolish, until at last they turned against even the Elves.   
  
  
Many kings had passed from the throne since the Elves sailed to the West, to the land no mortal can find unaided, but still some remained in the lower realm of Middle Earth. They were the first to be hunted, for a terrible envy had been placed in the hearts of men, an envy which in time grew to fear and hate. Forgetting all that was owed to the Firstborn, black-hearted Followers sought them in their haven in the Western Lands at the end of time, and with the aid of fell magic wrought by the Dark Lord, the Fair Ones were brought once more to the land they had left behind. There, in their jealousy of the fair folk, Men sought to bring them low, and with cruelty and torment they at last succeeded. The Elves were enslaved, now mere playthings and labourers for mortals. It seemed that thus would the days of the Firstborn end; not, as they had hoped, in peaceful eternal twilight, but in ignoble torment at the hands of those they had so loved.   
  
  
But it came to be prophesied that in the very darkest days, Hope would at last come, and the true order of Middle Earth would once more be restored. This Hope, it was said, would be one steeped in mystery, hidden until the eleventh hour. It would come from the last stars before dawn. And lo, at the ending of the Ages known, the Hope of the Firstborn was come to Middle Earth. And as the prophecy had foretold, it fell from the stars.  
  
"WHHHOOOOOAAAAAAAAAAAAAAARRRGH-oof!"  
  
Verily did the Saviour of the Quendi fall into a small grove of bushes, landing on its Sacred Arse, and lay still.  
  
"Bugger," quoth the Chosen One.  
  
  
  
*****  
  
  
  
Fosco Tighfield was not happy. It was his custom, indeed the custom of all hobbits, to bring a halt to their business (whatever it may be) at 10:55 precisely, so that the far more serious undertaking of elevenses could be considered. It was a tradition Fosco could find no fault with, and thus applied himself vigorously to the task as often as possible. Today, however, it seemed that this tradition was not to be upheld, owing to the lack of any digestible items about his person. He conducted a final search of all the pockets he could find, in the unlikely hope that he had somehow overlooked a crust of bread or scrap of cheese, and sighed. It seemed the fates had decreed that Fosco was to remain in that most wretched of states for a hobbit: hungry.  
  
  
He sat down heavily upon the banks of the small brook, and trailed his fingers in the bright, clear water, streaked with gold from the midday sun. A fine state of affairs, he thought miserably; far from home, footsore and weary, with nothing to eat since breakfast. It was enough to make any sensible hobbit regret his recklessness in leaving the Shire, and Fosco was certainly having second thoughts. It was all very well to wish for excitement like this when one was safe and snug in one's own hobbit hole, but once things were underway travelling wasn't nearly as dashing as it was made out to be. Quite the opposite, in fact; it was dull, tiring, hot and dusty. He lay down with his hands behind his head, gazing up through the branches at the sky, and wondered whether he might not find some mushrooms, if he searched around under those trees-  
  
  
A clump of bushes near him shook violently, and Fosco looked up in alarm. The next moment, the bushes were ripped from the ground as an enormous Orc, filthy and battle-scarred, ploughed through them. It whipped its great head around, trying to peer in all directions at once, and its beady little eyes closed upon Fosco. It leapt forward clumsily to land in front of him, and knelt there, slavering in a manner that, with a considerable stretch of imagination, could almost be called respectful. The hobbit sighed. "Good-day, Lardang."  
  
"Grakka," muttered the Orc.  
  
Fosco frowned. "Pardon?"  
  
"'s m'name, Sir," said the Orc, a little louder. "Grakka. Lardang's m' brother."  
  
Fosco rolled his eyes and heaved himself up to a sitting position. "Very well, Grakka. I suppose you have a jolly good reason for leaving the others with the caravan, what? Who's minding the elves?"  
  
"Mazag's on 'em. Got sent see yous, Sir. Krillig says that 'cause me the new one, me gots to tell you th' bad news," Grakka continued in a clumsy perversion of the common speech, his guttural accent making the words harsh and unpleasant.  
  
"Oh?" said Fosco, frowning. "And what news might that be, eh?"  
The Orc looked shifty, but said nothing.  
"Grakka," Fosco warned.  
  
"Wonortuofthelvesscaped.," growled Grakka, shifting from foot to foot.  
  
Fosco blinked. "What?"  
  
"Hem," the Orc cleared its throat nervously, "'said, One or two'f the elves escaped, like. Run orft." Fosco sighed, and Grakka went on hurriedly. "Not me fault, Sir! They just bolted, like. We couldn't stop 'em."  
  
"Which ones?" asked Fosco wearily.  
  
"Um, some of the good 'uns. Wunnov the pretty boys ann'a girrrrrl." The Orc rolled the rrrrr's hungrily, a nasty light glowing in its slit red eyes. "Lardang's already gawn t'look ferr'em."  
  
  
"Well, you'd best go and help him, hadn't you, eh? There's a good lad." Fosco smiled encouragingly at his minion, who, after a moment of confusion, lurched off to whence he came.   
  
  
The hobbit closed his eyes and rubbed the bridge of his nose, moaning slightly. Typical elves, never giving a moment's consideration to anyone but themselves. Just when they were so close to Bree, the silly beasts had to go on with their silly "Death before dishonour" nonsense and try to escape. His uncle would *not* be pleased; it had taken well over a week for Fosco to persuade his formidable relative that despite his few years of experience (Fosco was barely out of his tweens), he was quite capable of managing an entire slaving convoy all the way to Bree. Fosco had to admit his uncle's fear appeared to be well founded, as the expedition had been somewhat less than a roaring success. So far, four elves had committed suicide rather messily (swallowing hot coals did not lend itself to an easy death), two of the labouring-class slaves had dropped dead from hunger and fatigue, and his best "entertainment" half-elven boy had caught a quite spectacular disease from a bit of quick and nasty business in an inn just outside Gondor. Fosco wrinkled his nose with distaste at the thought of that one. The Orcs had kept it alive for a few days so they could watch the pus form, but they soon grew bored with the elf's wailing and dashed its brains out against a tree. The hobbit did not wholly approve of such behaviour, but the fellows had been having such a marvellous time he hadn't the heart to tell them off. He picked idly at a clump of nearby grass, musing on the fact that while a drop of Firstborn blood was enough to condemn a man to a lifetime of servitude and humiliation, it didn't do a damn thing against a dose of pox.  
  
  
Fosco heard another bush meet its untimely doom and looked up. Grakka had reappeared and was standing before him, drooling patiently. "What is it now, Grakka? It's frightfully hard to get any rest with you stomping around the woods like this, what?"  
  
Grakka shifted uncomfortably. "Yessir, but I forgotto arsk: wha'should I do wiv t'elves once I finds 'em?"  
  
Fosco sighed. "Well, obviously try not to damage the goods."  
  
"An' if'n they doan wanna come?" Grakka grinned nastily.  
  
The hobbit waved a dismissive hand. "Oh, I don't know, old boy, you think of something. You said one of them was a gel, yes? Well, give her a little slap and tickle, hmmm? Make her think twice before running off again."   
  
"Yessir. Thankee sir."  
  
"Quite alright, Grakka." Fosco watched the retreating figure of the Orc as it lumbered at speed through the hapless undergrowth. "The people one meets in this business," he muttered to himself. As if it wasn't bad enough hauling such a volatile cargo around the countryside, he had only three assistants of dizzyingly low intellect (for even an Orc) to help him. He only hoped that the load would fetch a decent price once they got to Bree, although with the present troubles there he doubted it would even cover the expenses of the journey. Perhaps it was time to move on, thought Fosco, picking himself up from the bank. The elf-trade was growing less and less profitable, and soon-  
  
  
There was a cry from the direction Grakka had crashed off in, followed by a scuffling struggle, a sickening crack of bone, and a dull thud as what was presumably a week's wages worth of elf fell to the ground. Surrendering to the amazingly resourceful stupidity of the companions which Fate had seen fit to burden him with, Fosco went off to see about some mushrooms.  
  
  
  
*****  
  
  
  
Randall moaned and sat up. This necessitated a swift return trip to the ground, where he lay for a minute, blinking and gasping. He spat out a mouthful of shrub and did a quick limb-and-vital-organ check. Two arms, two legs. Head- Randall winced as he gingerly probed the base of his skull, and felt the sticky wetness in his hair. He slowly raised himself once more and sat for a minute, licking the blood off his fingers thoughtfully. He gazed around the clearing: it was rather a pretty spot, with soft, springy turf and small clutches of wild flowers around the perimeter. It was, however, most definitely not Brisbane, Australia.  
  
  
"Oh, fanbloodytastic," sighed Randall, not really terribly upset. It wasn't the first time he'd woken up sore, bloody and confused in a strange place, and he had all his clothes and eyebrows and genitals, so it wasn't as bad as it might have been. He felt in the back pocket of his pants for his wallet, and found what little cash he had was still present. Yay me, he thought happily. And I didn't piss myself, either. The day was looking fine.   
  
  
He got to his feet a little uncertainly and swayed in place for a moment before weaving off to find something greasy to demolish. Possibly a Jaffle of some ki-  
  
"Lim! Noro! Noro!"  
  
Randall spun around in time to see a young girl crash through the brush and barrel into him, bearing them both to the ground.  
  
"Holy sh-ARGH!"  
  
The two writhed on the turf, the girl kicking frantically and jabbering at him, Randall trying desperately not to look too much like he was raping her.  
  
"Ow! Ow! Get off, gerrof, that's my- OW! CHRIST!" Randall threw himself free of the tangle of limbs and fell back onto the ground, panting. The girl whimpered, and he propped himself up so as to glare at her more efficiently.  
  
  
"Hey, what the bloody hell was that? You trying to-" Blonde hair, blue eyes, tits out 'till Tuesday, long legs, cherry lips, clothes torn to show more than a necessary amount of bosom. "Uh, are you okay? Miss?" Randall added hopefully, and then started as a second form tumbled into the clearing. It was a young man, who looked around wildly for a second before sighting the girl. He certainly looked like her other half, Randall noted with some dismay. That is to say, disturbingly attractive, in a Hitler-Youth-campaign-poster sort of way. Still, he also looked distinctly like He Came From The Planet Of The Pooves, so perhaps there was hope yet. Randall decided that they were probably Norwegian, for the simple reason that it was the only Nordic country he could actually remember.  
  
The young man had grabbed hold of the girl's arm. He dragged her awkwardly for a few steps before she cried out in pain, her ankle buckling beneath her. Randall watched with interest; it didn't look like she was about to get molested, but you could never tell with these Netherlands types. Those people had far too much high-quality nude volleyball porn to be entirely stable. Not that he was complaining.  
  
"Hey, Ken, put Barbie down, alright? Don't think she wants to play today," said Randall, wondering whether he'd have to get up and douse them in cold water or something.  
  
The youth's head whipped up as he noticed Randall's (obviously unwelcome) presence. Spitting a few angry words he started towards him, but the girl clutched at his leg. The young man glared at Randall for just long enough to show he wasn't scared or anything, then turned back to the girl, who was sobbing quietly. He knelt and stroked her hair back, whispering something in her ear. Her very long, pointed ear...Randall shook his head, and when he looked back the girl's golden hair had fallen forward once again. The young man had pulled her up and was desperately trying to move her once again, but her ankle had obviously been seriously hurt. Randall stood unsteadily and walked towards the pair.  
  
"Hey, is she okay?" He stretched out a hand to help, then pulled it back as the young man snarled violently at him. "Christ! Jesus, mate, I'm sorry, she just came running out of the bushes at me. Bloody Norwegian backpackers. Hang on," his face clouded, "are you guys in trouble? Look, if you need a safe house or something, my mate Simon-"  
  
  
He was cut off by a hideous screech and the thrashing of still more foliage. "Poor bushes," thought Randall sadly (he always took the side of the vegetation, claiming he had more in common with it). "I wonder if-" At that point he stopped feeling sorry for the flora, being rather more concerned with the great ugly grey thing which was suddenly waving a bloody big sword at him and yelling quite a lot. So Randall yelled back, ran like a weasel, tripped over the blonde and the nancy-boy behind him and went A over T back onto the grass.   
  
Vision wonky. Can't see. Need drink. Girl? Ugly thing holding girl by hair! "You bastard!" said Randall unsteadily, trying to hold on to the ground. The girl squealed as the Bastard wrenched her upwards. It was almost obscene seeing the two faces so close that she could have licked the thing if she'd had a mind. Hers was pure, smooth, damasked white and rose; the thing's a misshapen lump, like a melted grey waxwork covered in grease and phlegm. It leered at the girl (although that was possibly its customary expression), and she strained backwards, wincing as her hair was gripped tighter. The Bastard leaned closer, then jerked backwards as a howl of fury, swiftly turning to a fearsome battle cry, sounded in the clearing. It appeared the young man had found his feet. He catapulted across the clearing, launched himself deftly at the Bastard's back and clung there like a demented limpet.  
  
  
Legs clamped firmly around the ugly bloke's middle, the suspiciously acrobatic Norwegian backpacker covered the Bastard's eyes with one hand and groped for the sword with the other. The Bastard grunted and swung wildly, still clinging to the screaming girl's hair. Randall stared open-mouthed at the spectacle (good street theatre being in short supply after the Great Mime Purges). The ugly Bastard was unlike any man he'd ever seen, with the exception of this one bouncer, but that bloke'd been on the 'roids for sure. "I should probably be doing something right about now," he thought. The Bastard grasped one of the young man's, and twisted it backwards with a sound to make a physio weep. "Then again, wouldn't want to get involved in a multicultural dispute," Randall added hastily to himself.  
  
  
The young man on the Bastard's back seemed not to notice the loss of one hand, but continued to grab for the cumbersome sword. In desperation, he brought a swift sudden blow down upon the Bastard's upraised sword arm. It probably would have had very little effect save had the great ugly thing's elbow been at precisely the right angle to go *ker-SNAP!* rather nastily. The Bastard raised its head and howled in a tone which touched a primal root of fear deep within Randall. He shivered. The young man struck again, making the Bastard's arm spasm wildly.  
  
  
The sword spun, the sunlight shining in a streak of muted lightning across the dull metal blade. It landed, hilt upwards, in the ground next to Randall. He looked at the sword.   
  
He looked at the Bastard.   
  
He looked at the beautiful young girl, and the handsome young man with the long flowing hair, fighting desperately for their lives.   
  
Randall knew what he had to do. So he picked up a rock and chucked it at the bastard.   
  
Who didn't notice a damn thing.   
  
"Well, that's them pretty much buggered," said Randall to himself.   
  
  
It was then he noticed that the young man was babbling in some weird-arse language at him and pointing frantically at the sword with his injured hand, while trying to gouge out the eye of the Bastard with the other. "What?" said Randall. The guy's eyes were points of blue steel, hard with terrible resolve as he clung desperately to the Bastard's back. The thing jumped and bucked like a wild stallion, and the boy spat another mouthful of words. "What?" said Randall again. "You want a rock? You- oh, right." He grabbed the hilt of the sword, clenched his teeth and pulled. Nothing happened. "Sorry, mate," shrugged Randall. "Why don't you stay here, and I'll...um...get help, I 'spose."   
  
  
The young man looked with mute horror at the girl as the Bastard swung her roughly by the hair, great clumps coming loose in its hands and flecking her porcelain face with spots of red. "Oh, bugger me. Time to be manly, mate." Randall tugged on the sword a little harder, almost falling over backwards as the blade slid suddenly from the dirt. "Oof! Hey, do I get to be king now?" He grinned at the guy on the Bastard's back. The poor bugger was not amused, as his girlfriend was rapidly losing consciousness. He released one hand long enough to make some frantic gestures and gibber a little more. "Oh, speak English. Tool," muttered Randall. He studied the Bastard. "Alright, you Big Ugly Bastard. I dunno what's up with your face, but there's no need to take it out on the lady." He glanced at the young man's long golden hair. "Ladies," he corrected. "Now, are you going to let them go, or do I have to wave this thing and quote Highlander?" The young man opened his mouth to yell again, but never got the chance.  
  
  
The Bastard was sick of this. Sick of the niggling thing on it's back. Sick of the scruffy little Boy-Child that had taken it's sword and was waving it clumsily. Most of all, it was sick of the screeching girl. Transferring it's powerful hands to her shoulders, the Bastard hefted her up and hurled her across the clearing. "Jesus!" yelled Randall, staring at the girl's flailing figure. Her wailing stopped suddenly, punctuated by a horrible, unmistakable crack as she ploughed into a tree. Hard. The mass of blonde hair spilled across the ground and she lay horribly still, her long, elegant neck at a very wrong angle. Her sightless eyes were as blue as the sky they stared up at. A trickle of blood from the corner of her red lips. A look of mild surprise on her lovely face.  
  
  
"Oh, my God," said Randall quietly. His limbs felt as dead as the girl, and he let the sword slip from his grasp to fall on the turf. A few steps towards the body before his legs froze up, then he turned, slowly, to face the other two. The young man was sheer white, shaking, burning. As Randall watched, he slid from the Bastard's back and ran towards the fallen girl. The boy never made it. Moving far too quickly for something of its size, the Bastard lunged for the sword and brought it around in one fluid movement. There was a silken, muffled *snick*, and a lump, trailing gold stained with blood, rolled across the ground. It came to a stop a little way from Randall's feet. He watched as though very from far away as the Bastard ambled over to him, picked up the head, sniffed it, and bit into it with a little pleased noise.   
  
  
"Oh," said Randall. Then he dropped to his knees and was violently ill. Head spinning blood cracking golden blood the screamingwhiteburningbloodrollinggoldenfireblood...He spat the bile from his mouth, and shakily got to his feet. Head spinning, black dots before his eyes, he prayed he was dreaming. The Bastard was looking at him curiously, chewing slowly and messily. Randall swallowed, wincing at the bitter taste. He knew it was probably the last thing he would ever taste. The Bastard walked towards him, still with an expression of mild interest, raised its sword, and ponderously brought the hilt down on his head. "Well," thought Randall as earth swallowed him, "That could've gone a bit better." 


	3. In Which There Are Freaks, and Randall's...

"That's rully baid fer yeah," the girl said in her weird-arse South African accent. I ignored her, kept shoving the Chiko Roll into my mouth. She was sipping mineral water, staring at me over the rim of the glass, twirling her greasy hair around one finger. Cam laughed and blew a smoke ring in her face, then leant over and kissed me on the cheek. "No use, love," he said to the girl. "I've tried to tell him not to do that to himself, but will he listen to me?" The smoke hung in front of me, leaving melting patterns in the hot, damp air.  
  
  
"Fuck you, you Pommy bastard. What about your cigs, then, eh?" I kissed him back, flicking my tongue against his cheek. Shot a look at the girl out the corner of my eye. She was getting off on it, a bit of flush creeping up her neck, breathing a little heavy, lips caught under her teeth. What is it with chicks and watching guys get it on? It'd mostly be Cam she was watching, but, what with me being an ugly fucker. I was going to say something to the girl, hang a bit of shit, but couldn't remember her name. It was something stupid, her parents being the kind who'd painted her bedroom plain white to "avoid enforcing outdated gender stereotypes on me from a young age." Apparently. She'd immigrated about four years ago and hadn't made a single friend here, except for a sad, limp individual called Anton who dressed in crusty corduroy and whose only topic of conversation was telly shows he liked when he was little. The girl hung around us because Jen was a soft touch and couldn't be bothered to tell her where to go.  
  
  
Turned to ask Jen where we were going tonight, but she was already gone, staring at her ham and cheese jaffle and sniffing a bit. Cam followed my gaze, grinned and patted Jen's arm. "Jenny, pet, you with us?"  
Jen gave him a wonky smile and said yeah, she was bloody great. Then she started crying, her face all screwed up, taking big sobbing breaths and calling Gav a bastard. I gave her a hug and ate her jaffle. The South African chick started making clucking sympathy noises, which pissed me off for some reason. So I gave her thigh a bit of a stroke under the table, which shut her right up, except now she was giving me a scary predatory look. She pulled out a compact and started fixing her awful green yellow eye shadow, giving me flirty little glances and making sure I was watching. Sharon Stone she was not.  
  
  
Cam was stroking Jen's hair and saying yeah, Gav was a bastard and she was far too good for him anyway and if he wanted to waste his time on an anorexic Barbie Bitchface it was his problem. I reckoned they'd be rooting like rabbits by the end of the night, what with Jen being a bit fragile and Cam being Cam. He caught my eye and mouthed, "Bit wasted," over Jen's head as she rested on the ugly laminex tabletop. I nodded; Jen'd been drowning her sorrows in some hospital strength brandy before we came to the Windmill Café. I mimed that we should ditch the whiny vegan Afrikaner cow and go to a club. Fortunately, the God of Annoyed and Awkward People intervened and the stupid girl pushed her chair across the lino floor and stood, saying, "Aih'm jest gewing to the laydies' rom. Be back in a tic."  
  
  
"Yeah, sure," said Cam. Dead casual, wink wink, eh Randall? Very smooth. The Windmill didn't have a "Ladies' Room" per se, just a unisex loo with a cracked bowl and no paper. No idea how they even got away with calling it a "Café". It was a grease pit that stayed open until nearly dawn, made the best dim sims in Brisbane and charged 7 cents more for a packet of Twisties than anywhere else. The girl-oh shit! Meridian. I knew it was a bloody stupid name. Sounds like she should write historical romance, eh? Anyway, Meridian sashayed across the floor, swinging her bony hips and weaving in between the other tables. Just as she got to the door of the loo, she turned, gave me a super slow wink and ran her tongue across her lips. The fluro lights made her look even more jaundiced and ill than usual, with dark circles standing out harsh beneath her eyes. I sort of smiled back at her. It was an effort not to spew. Cam shot me a faked sympathetic look and kicked me in the crotch. Bastard.  
  
  
The second she was around the corner, we grabbed Jen and piss-bolted out the front door into the night air. It reeked of the three-week old grease they used in the deep fryer; great stinking clouds of steam in the air. Me and Cam dragged Jen out of the Café, one of us under each arm. "Come on, come on, she'll be done in a minute."  
"Yeah, come on Jennyjenjen. There's a pet."  
But Jen just plopped down on the bench outside and sniffled. Cam threatened to lick her if she didn't move. She didn't, and he didn't. I was getting nervous; if I hung around Meridian too long, I would probably end up rooting her. This would be unfortunate, because I was planning on rooting Jen. Cam seemed to have that pretty much sewn up, but. As bloody usual. Wish I had an accent.  
  
  
An old You Am I song, "Adam's Rib", started on the radio speaker outside. It was one of Jen's favourite shimmy tracks, and she snapped out of her funk, thank God. Suddenly she was grabbing me around the waist from behind and jumping up onto my back. "Christ!" I nearly fell out onto the road, and tottered on the edge of the footpath as a four wheel drive thundered past. Then Jen was kissing my ears and laughing and saying how she never liked Gav anyway and everything was okay. Her tongue in my ear felt a bit weird, but I didn't want to spoil her mood. She jumped down and spun me around, and we had a bit of a pash under a streetlight. It was a good night, full moon and really hot and that, and Jen smelled lovely, like the frangipanis that grew outside her bedroom window. She tasted mellow and thick, from the brandy probably, and it filled my head with thoughts. I wouldn't have minded staying on like that for a while, but then Cam ran back and tackled us going, Hey, time waits for no man, my lovelies, so let's winedineandboogieondown, for tomorrow we may die! He was always coming out with shit like that. One of the reasons I loved him.  
  
  
*****  
  
  
"I still fink y'should lemme kill it."  
  
"I know you do, Grakka," Fosco sighed, puffing on his pipe. "But as I thought I'd already explained, obviously not thoroughly enough, that is not exactly a viable option, what? However, if you really do fancy the idea of slow, painful and inventive death then by all means, kill the Man. I'm sure they'll come up with some jolly fascinating ways to execute you."  
  
Grakka and his brother Lardang shifted uneasily. Being Labour and Security orcs, bred for fierceness, brute strength and speed, rational thought was something of an optional extra. Thus, their cognitive process did not extend greatly beyond Kill, Eat, Fight, Step On and Smoosh Under A Rock. They looked imploringly at a short, wiry orc standing nearby, who ignored them.  
  
  
"So." Fosco looked unhappily at the still form before them, and blew a thoughtful smoke-ring. A young Man, straggly, probably little more than a Boy, with hair the colour of mouldy straw (now matted with blood) sticking up at all angles from his head. He was dressed oddly, but then Fosco had seen enough of the fashions among the young Men (and Women) nowadays not to be greatly surprised by his attire. His hands were disproportionately large for his body and his nose had been broken at least once. Curiously, his face and ears were adorned with rings, much like those worn by the orcs: several in each ear, and one in his eyebrow. Fosco supposed the Boy belonged to one of those silly orc-worship cults so terribly common nowadays, and was bending over him to inspect the rings a little closer when the Boy stirred. Fosco instantly dropped down beside him, peering anxiously into the pale upturned face. The hobbit was deeply nervous: the possible repercussions if one of his workers was found to have killed a Man-Child was weighing heavily on his mind. He'd heard stories of wickedly sharp knives, boiling hot pitch, spiked whips and other things too terrible to dwell upon.  
  
  
"Shut the window," said Randall, and opened his eyes. They were met by a pair of large, dark brown ones with endless lashes. Randall blinked, hard, and when he looked again the eyes had been replaced with a sword. "I think I liked it better the first time," said Randall sleepily, his tongue feeling about three times too big for his mouth. Then his sluggish synapses processed the fact that an extremely sharp sword was pointed at his head, and a course of action was decided upon:  
  
"Shit!" Randall army-rolled desperately to one side, tried to jump to his feet and face- planted on the grass. "Ouch."  
  
"Grakka, you fool!" yelped Fosco, struggling on his back like an overturned beetle, still lying where the orc had shoved him aside. "What are you doing? Put the sword down this instant!"  
  
"Sorry, boss. 'S jus' instinct, like," mumbled the orc contritely.   
  
"Yar," nodded his kinsman with enthusiasm. "He could've attacked yous, or summat. Neverrr know, do yer?"  
  
  
Fosco glanced at the young Man with his face in the turf and shook his head. "Oh, do be quiet. And help me up. Him, too."  
Randall yelped as a scaly pair of paws hauled him off the grass and brushed him down rather more roughly than was absolutely necessary. He gaped at the thing doing the brushing for a moment, before recognition stirred in his mind.  
  
"You!" He yelled, backing away nervously. "The Ugly Bastard! What the hell are you doing here? You killed that girl! And the guy! And you hit me! Hard! You dickhead! Stop brushing me! Ow! Stop it! Ow!"  
  
"Grakka, stop that at once!" Fosco, brushing his own grass off, looked at the Boy with concern. He seemed to be babbling incoherently, and the hobbit wondered whether Grakka had done any permanent damage.  
  
"I say, Sir," he said, taking the Boy's arm gently, "Are you quite alright?"  
  
Randall looked down and jumped. "Bugger me, a dwarf!" He put a hand gingerly to his head, winced, and examined the fresh blood on his fingers. "I think you hit me harder than I thought. Hey," he noticed the orc as though for the first time, "What's up with your face? Are you okay?" A thought struck him, and he turned to the Short Arse. "Are you guys with one of those freak shows? Because I think your Ugly Bugger just killed some Swedish back-packers. Or maybe," he looked around hazily; the bodies of the young man and the girl were nowhere to be seen. "Maybe that was just me. I think I might sit down for a bit." His legs buckled, and Randall sat down heavily, rubbing his temples.  
  
  
Fosco knelt next to him in alarm; the boy was making not a whit of sense, but he seemed to be greatly distressed about something. "Sir," he asked again, "Are you quite alright?"  
  
Randall looked at the Short Arse, then to the Ugly Bugger, and back again. "Um, do you speak English?"  
  
Fosco raised an eyebrow quizzically.  
  
"Uh, Habla espan-yol? Speekn zee Deuytch?" hazarded Randall in what fractured phrasebook languages he could remember. The Short Arse continued to look blank, and Randall had a bit of a panic. "Oh, shit. Shit. Shit! I've gotten so wasted I've forgotten how to speak properly, haven't I? Or I'm in another country, aren't I? I bloody bet I am. Oh, damn damn bugger and damn!" Randall yelled, slamming his fist into the ground.  
  
Fosco patted his arm reassuringly, nodding and smiling. "Uhhm, Suhr?" said Grakka, uneasily, moving closer to his brother. The smaller orc remained silent, sharpening his claws impassively with a knife. 'Suhr, arre yeh sure we carrnt kill 'im? He could get narsty."  
  
  
"No, Grakka." Fosco sighed, watching as the young man tried unsuccessfully to kick himself in the posterior. The hobbit took out his pouch, and began filling a small clay pipe. "You know the penalties for harming a Man. We can't take the risk. Besides, the poor thing's obviously deranged, probably thanks to you."  
  
  
"No, he's not," said the third orc, without looking up from his manicure. "He's perfectly sane. Well, near enough. He's talking lucidly. He obviously just doesn't speak the Common Tongue. Not everyone's culture's been overwhelmed by our *Lords*, you know." The orc's accent was crisp and flawless, with none of the guttural inflections common to his kind: he would have been at home in the courts of Gondor.  
  
Fosco looked hard at the slim, muscular orc, not a great deal taller than himself. "I see," he said irritably. 'And what, pray, leads you to that conclusion, eh, Nurtz?" He re-lit his pipe, noting that he was running low on weed.  
  
  
"Simple." The orc held his claws away for inspection, seemingly pleased with his work.. "Grakka said the Man-Child yelled something he didn't understand directly before the great brute employed his usual method of dealing with things he doesn't understand, yes? So, presumably, if the Boy was talking like that *before* he was beaten half to death, it made perfect sense to him. Allowing, of course, for the assumption that he wasn't mad to begin with. He hasn't answered any of your perfectly innocent questions, so one can suppose he didn't understand them. He dresses strangely, though-" Lurtz paused, casting a critical eye over the miserable creature crouched warily on the grass before him, "not in the way of the Gondor youths, and in a manner unsuited to the climate at this time of year. Those clothes and boots seem reasonably well-made, if a little worn, so he's not a peasant." Nurtz slipped the knife into his belt, stood, and stretched, popping the ligaments in his neck. "On the other hand, he chose to use a rock instead of the spare sword against Grakka, so he's not a noble; or if he is, an extraordinarily untrained one. So, one can deduce that he is from somewhere rather warmer, which has been at peace for some time, speaks not the Common Tongue and, judging by the way he's looking at you, *Sir*," The orc managed to make the usually respectful term sound roughly equivalent to 'maggot vomit', "is unused to Halfings and most probably Orcs as well," he finished with a smug half-smile at Fosco.  
  
  
The hobbit and the other orcs gaped at him for a second- then Grakka reached out and ponderously smacked Lurtz upside the head. The smaller orc gave a quiet grunt as he fell to the ground. Fosco arched an eyebrow at his minion, who shrugged casually. "Smart arsed mongrel fing," he snorted at the prone form of Lurtz. "Kaarnt keepis mowf shut, cannee?"  
  
Fosco sighed. "Quite. Still," he pursed his lips, "It makes sense, though, what? And if he is noble, as well as a *foreign* type," (Fosco pronounced it with some distaste, sharing his race's distrust of all things 'foreign'. Terribly greasy food, you know.) "Then it's most likely someone will be looking for him. I suppose we shall just have to take him with us, at least until our next stop. No," he held up a hand to halt Grakka and Lardang's growls of protest, "I've made up my mind. Besides," he added thoughtfully, "If he is a noble, we may get something extra for our troubles, what?"   
  
  
Randall, who had watched this entire lengthy exchange without a damn clue what was happening, decided it would be a good idea not to piss off the deformed foreign freaks who obviously had some kind of grudge against other tourists and liked beating each other unconscious, which was possibly part of their act. He turned to the Short Arse, noting that the little weirdo was dressed like an extra in a BBC period drama, and gave a smile that tried quite hard to be friendly. "Um, look," he began, and then realised they probably hadn't learnt English since the last time he tried, and began to mime while speaking very slowly and loudly (no-one knows why this helps). "Uh, Can." Pleading hand gesture. "You." Pointing at Fosco and the orcs. "Help." Frantic hand movements. "Me?" Pointing at self.  
  
Fosco, surprisingly, gathered most of what Randall was getting at, and mimed back, speaking slowly and loudly. "You." Point at Randall. "Come." Beckoning. "With." Pointing behind his shoulder. "Us." Sweeping arm movements, big smile. They nodded happily at each other. Randall climbed rather unsteadily to his feet, his head muddled enough not to question the situation any further, and followed the Freaks down an overgrown path. Grakka dragged the unconscious Lurtz roughly along behind him, making sure to go over as many rocks and nettle patches as possible.  
  
  
After a few minutes tramping, they had reached another clearing almost identical to the one from which they had come, except for the carts. There were three of them parked in the middle of the glade: large and rather decrepit horse-drawn wagons, covered with canvas. There were more hulking, child-molesty looking people milling about, though none quite so large as those he'd been following. Some were fiddling with harnesses; others were adjusting the canvas coverings of the carts; all seemed to be preparing to leave. The midgety thing strode across to talk to one of his freaks. The Ugly Bastards went off as well, presumably to dump their unconscious colleague somewhere, their rank stench thankfully following them. Randall thought he heard a muffled cry from one of the carts, but the ugly bloke nearest to it aimed a savage kick in the general direction and the noise stopped. Randall shook his spinning head, trying empty the glue that had obviously been poured in through his ears. He felt a tug on his sleeve, and looked down into the broad, good-natured face of the Short Arse. The odd little bugger gestured at the crude seat front cart,. Randall nodded, and climbed up behind the freakish driver, followed by the Short Arse.  
  
  
The little bloke called an order, and the carts lurched slowly off down the dusty roadway ahead, some of the Differently Formed guys strolling along beside. They were talking amongst themselves in an unusual tongue; either that, or they all had really nasty throat infections. Randall looked about at the countryside with an increasing sense of unease. Now that his head was beginning to sort itself out, he was getting bloody worried. He had no idea where he was, or what continent he was on.   
  
Everyone he'd met so far had either been a young Nazi, a midget or a misshapen weirdo with the worst dermatitis he'd seen since that blind date a few years back, no-one spoke English, he had possibly just seen two people horribly murdered or had a remarkable vivid hallucination of said scenario and he was bleeding from the head. There are some things that even your lucky underwear can't help you with. He felt a gentle tap on his arm, and looked across at the midget. He had a pleasant little face, with large, bright brown eyes and a warm smile. He mimed what looked like "Are you okay?"  
  
  
Randall grinned back, and gave an "I've been better" gesture. The midget bent, rummaging under the seat, and emerged with a pack, which he emptied onto the seat between them. There was cheese, bread, a bottle of wine and what looked like mushrooms. He motioned that Randall should help himself, which the boy did without any further prompting. He tried a chunk of the cheese, which made his tongue crawl, so he concerned himself chiefly with the wine. Randall hoped it was strong enough to get him drunk: he wasn't liking the worrying thoughts niggling at his brain as the carts rumbled along. He took a swig of the liquor and grimaced, trying to get a grip on things.   
  
All right, time to take stock: He was in a strange, woodland country filled with very short people who really liked cheese, mushrooms and wine and wore bizarre clothes; beautiful girls and disturbingly effeminate boys; ugly fuckers who had no concept of deodorant and really, really didn't like strangers; and not one of them spoke Engl-  
  
  
Randall's eyes widened. "Oh, bugger me," he wailed, startling the hobbit. "I'm in FRANCE!"  
  
  
  
AN: Orc-worshipping cults? Men taking over Middle Earth? What the hell am I doing?!? Well, they actually come directly from Tolkien himself (see "The New Shadow") so it's canon. Sort of. I'm not trying to completely screw up Middle Earth. This is just my interpretation of Tolkien's worst nightmare; elves getting buggered over, hobbits becoming as corrupt as Men, Men generally being bastards, and orcs being widely accepted. And the Elvish orgies are coming. Honest. :) Thanks and salutations to the ever-radiant MJ, Queen of the Beta: Who loves ya, buddy? 


	4. In Which The Plot Thickens

Meanwhile, back at the ranch...  
  
  
The old man stared in disbelief at the empty space on the floor. He stood there motionless for some time, his jaw hanging slack, his eyes wide, his entire body numb. "Gone..." his voice sounded as another's to him. He took a few tottering steps towards the void. Gone. He was...gone. The old man blinked. He should probably be angry, he knew, or at the very least upset. Instead, he felt...nothing. Nothing at all. It was finished. He had tried and he had failed and there was nothing, nothing to be done about it. He felt warm muted sunlight play across his skin, and shivered.  
  
"Excuse me?"  
  
And there she was. Of course he hadn't heard her enter. Why would he? She was far too graceful to go clomping about making a racket. Her eyes glowed at him, emeralds in an alabaster setting, framed with endless dark lashes. Sculpted face, pale, with damasked rose dusted gently across the defined cheekbones. Full, ruby lips. Noble forehead. Thick, lustrous dark hair like a river of molten ebony spilling across her slim shoulders. The beauty of the queens, virgins, saints and lovers of a thousand ages had a single face, and it smiled at him now in the dusty sunshine.   
  
"Um, Sir?"  
  
A voice at once sweet and deep, melodious like a cello concerto. Gentle smile. Straight, white teeth. Excellent posture. The old man suddenly realised his mouth was hanging open. He swallowed and tried to smile at the Vision, while a nasty brain-maggot screamed into his cerebral cortex that all was not well. In fact, all was very much in, as they say, the poo.  
  
"Yes, miss? Can I...um, help you?"  
  
The beautiful brow wrinkled slightly. The perfect lips puckered charmingly. "We-e-ell, I'm really not sure. You see, it was the strangest thing." She smiled shyly, and the angels wept. "I was just walking along the road on my way to archery practice, my nose in a book, as usual," -little self-deprecating laugh like the tinkle of bells- "When I suddenly thought, 'Say, I haven't seen that little shop before,' and I had the strangest feeling that I ought to go inside. Isn't that funny?" She seemed gentle, yet strong. Feminine, yet tough and capable. Intelligent, but only in the attractive, mildly threatening sense. Rather taller than he, but then, who wasn't?  
  
The brain-maggot of doubt and impending doom looked smug. Colour drained from the old man's face. "Yes, yes, most peculiar. Um, do forgive me for prying, but did you say...archery practice?"  
  
"Oh, yes." Green eyes glowed. "Yes, I've been doing it for years. My dad insisted. He taught it to me for a while. Same with fencing. Though I hardly have any time for either of them now." The Goddess sighed, and all young boys within a 500-foot radius entered puberty.  
  
"Right." The old man licked his lips nervously. "May I...may I ask, um, what book it was you were reading, my dear?"  
  
"Oh, The Return of the King, of course. It's my favourite of the series. Have you read them?" Her smiling face grew dim, and the old man felt his legs trembling beneath him. "I'm...familiar...with the story, yes. You know it well?"  
  
"Oh, yeah. My friends and I are all huge fans of it. We even taught ourselves to speak Elvish," she added with a conspiratorial grin. "We're practically fluent."  
  
"Really." His voice sounded heavy even to him. "How very useful." He stuck his hands nervously into his pockets. "Well, I'm afraid I'm just about to cl-" Silence, as his fingers closed over something hard and cold. A shiver ran up his arm, and he drew his hand fearfully out. The little thing gleamed in the light, burning with a dark fire. He tore his eyes from it to meet the girl's; for an instant, he thought he saw a...a hunger there. A deep, aching hunger he had not seen for a long, long time. It burned itself out as quickly as it had come, leaving nothing but the polite interest of a young girl who, for one shining, terrible moment, had been the vessel of Fate itself.  
  
"*That's* a pretty ring."  
"Yes," he answered with some difficulty. "Yes, it is, isn't it?" He fought the urge to hold the little golden death out to her.  
"That's funny; we were just talking about Lord of the Rings, and you happened to have that on you. Bit of a coincidence, isn't it?" Her laughter sounded sharp and brittle. "Did you say you were-?"  
  
"Closing? Ah, yes, well...perhaps I can keep it open a little longer. If you see something you like, that is." The words ran directly from his brain stem to his mouth. "Did you have anything particular in mind?" He blinked; suddenly he was having trouble focusing.  
  
"Oh, I don't know. I really don't know what sort of things you have...Oh, wow!" She picked up a beautiful dark-wood bow that had not been there a moment ago. "This is just lovely. Is it expensive? What am I saying, of course it's expensive, I mean look at it..."  
  
Her words ran across him like dust in the wind. "I suppose...I suppose it is, yes. But I Have Something You Might Like Just As Much." His hand felt dead as he extended it to her. There was triumph in her eyes as they lit once more upon the ring, and a leaden finality settled in his chest. He could feel his heartbeat slowing. He wished he'd had just a little more time...  
  
"Oh, I couldn't take that." She could. "I mean, it's...it's just too lovely."  
"You can, you know- what did you say your name was, my dear?"  
"Uduniel." She blushed a little. "My parents thought it was pretty. They're big fans of Lord of the Rings, too."  
"Uduniel..." He turned the word over in his mind, and smiled bitterly. "I imagine you'll suit it very well, my dear." I suppose she doesn't speak Elvish as well as all that, then, he thought with petty satisfaction. "But really, my dear, you must take it. I insist." He swallowed; it was getting harder to breathe now.  
  
"Oh, well...if you insist. Thank you." Her eyes shone with anticipation as her soft, elegant hands lifted it gently from his. She let out a breath he hadn't been aware she was holding, and held the ring reverently. Nothing happened. He smiled, clutching the edge of the counter as the world began to dim.  
  
"I think my dear," he gasped with difficulty. "It might help if you were to put it on."  
"Oh, right." She slid it onto a long, fine finger and was gone without a sound, save for a soft puff of air rushing to fill the vacuum.   
  
The old man laughed softly and sadly to himself as he slid to the floor, the room fading fast. "Let's see them sort out that bloody mess," thought Frodo as the blessed night closed over him.  
  
  
  
AN: Ooooooooh! Sorry this one is so short. Oh, and if you get time, *do* look up Uduniel's name. 


	5. Which Contains a More Efficient Design F...

AN: Very short. Apologies. Have just re-read story, which was v. big mistake. Am in despair at self's arrogance for ever imagining self could write. Have re-BETA'd previous chapters in futile effort to improve. Am not fishing for compliments. Am sounding like Bridget Jones, so will stop now. Thanks to all who reviewed: you are ducks.  
  
  
  
"Oi said, it's nowt t'do wi'you."  
"An' oi say 'tis!"  
"'tisn't!"  
"'tis!"  
"'tisn't!"  
"'tis!"  
"'tisn't!"  
  
Perched on the back rail of a transport cart, Grakka and Lardang glared at each other maliciously. In every species, in every world, in every plane of existence (fictional or otherwise), brothers will be brothers. Orcs were no exception. The argument these disreputable siblings were currently pursuing was an old favourite, one they resumed at every available opportunity and whose origins -and indeed, point- were long since forgotten. Behind them, a dozen woebegone figures packed tightly into a space meant for half that number sat, stood and lay in squalor. Listless and dull-eyed, they slumped raggedly across each other, limbs entangled in an unintentional parody of intimacy, too tired and broken to care.  
  
Save for one.   
  
Leaning back against the side of the cart, long legs stretched casually, almost lazily, before him, alone. He had barely moved from his place the entire journey. Not one of the other slaves dared attempt a conversation; they had suspected his scars marked him as some kind of mercenary. In a way, they were right- he had fought long and hard, but for something far more valuable than gold. He had not positioned himself apart from the rest of the Elves and half-Elven on purpose; they had instinctively given him as much space as possible, sensing perhaps that he was something Other to them. Which he was. Other, older and far more dangerous than any of them could have imagined. He smiled tiredly to himself in the rank, airless dark. And waited.  
  
*****  
  
  
"...so, of course, I only have Grakka and Lardang and, um, and, oh-what's-his-height to help me. The others are low-level security, practically useless. I do believe Uncle might be trying to test me, or some such thing. It would be the sort of thing he would do. Anyway, it makes the transportation damned difficult, if you'll pardon my Orcish..." Fosco nattered happily. He had grown rather fond of the boy over the past few hours, mostly because he had sat quietly and listened without protestation to Fosco's life story from about age two-and-a-half onwards.   
  
Randall sighed. The strange wine had not been kind to his recently emptied stomach, and he was still trying to figure out exactly what was going on. The prattling little thing really wasn't helping his aching head, nor was the early afternoon sun beating relentlessly down on them. He looked longingly towards the rich, green coolness lining the scorched path. The trees were unlike any he'd seen: massive, dark-wooded and heavy with foliage. As Randall gazed at them with the kind of lustful yearning usually reserved for Drew Barrymore circa "Poison Ivy", something caught his eye. The merest flicker of movement amongst the trees, nothing more. Probably just a, a...(Randall's knowledge of forestry began and ended with "Bambi") um, happy little woodland creature of some kind. Probably.   
  
Two minutes later, a small article of vermin scurried across the road.   
  
Five minutes later, Fosco finished telling Randall about his idea for a more efficient type of corkscrew.  
  
Seven minutes later, Lurtz (now conscious -if a little sore- and walking at the very rear of the convoy) scratched vaguely at a phantom itch on his arm.  
  
Fifteen minutes later, he was dead.  
  
Thirty seconds after that, so was just about everyone else. 


End file.
